Fish Dreams "I can walk!" I yell at the nurse who just insist I ride out of here in this d.a.m.n wheelchair. I know the rules. I been through this before. But, h.e.l.l, some rules was made to be broken.

"I'm sure you can, Mrs. Price, but you know hospital regulations: we have to a.s.sist you out in a wheelchair regardless if you're able to walk or not. Is that your son over there?"

Lewis is sitting in one of those lookalike chairs with his hands clasped together like he's praying hard for something he know he don't deserve. His face is shiny in a dull kinda way from perspiring and look like he need a hot shower. Why do he have to come out in public looking like he homeless or something? "Yeah, that's my son," I mumble, and Lewis looks at me like he's apologizing for it. Sometimes I wish G.o.d had made me a witch, or at least given me some magic powers. I'd start by rewiring my son, give him a clean start, put him on a wholesome path: one that lead somewhere.

"Is he going to drive you home?"

I look at him, hard. He ain't got no driver's license, but I let him drive my Sentra down here to bring me my dentures since Loretta s been a litde under the weather herself these past few days and ain't been able to get up here. I asked him to bring me some clean underwear and something decent to wear home-anything hanging in my closet that stretch, and please: no zippers, or b.u.t.tons, or hooks and eyes. I told Lewis I better not smell a drop of liquor on his breath either, even though it'll probably be oozing out his pores, and if he even thought about driving my car anywhere but here, he best forget all about the whole idea. I'd know it, 'cause I keep track of my mileage, and if I found out he had, I'd make him walk his a.s.s all the way down to the Strip to find his daddy. He could stay with Cecil and his young girlfriend and her kids in the luxurious projects till he wore out his welcome. Lewis promised he'd be up here by twelve even though they wasn't releasing me till one. Two of the nurses told me he been here since ten- thirty.

I get on in the wheelchair and nod yes to the nurse. Lewis gets up and follows us to the counter, where they hand me a plastic bag with my personal things in it. I put it in my lap. The nurse hands me a stack of papers-a million instructions on how to keep breathing, and then a pile of tiny ones. I know what they are.

"You have seven prescriptions that need to be filled as soon as possible. Can your son do that for you?"

"Yes, I can," Lewis says.

"Okay, okay. Get me outta here. I wanna go home."

I hear him let out one of his long sighs, and I don't hardly say two words to him till we pull in my driveway.

I can't believe it. The house is clean. Spotless. "Who did this?"

"Me. Wasn't much to do."

I go in the kitchen and open the refrigerator real slow. It's been cleaned out, too, with the exception of some French's mustard packages, a jar of Folger's coffee crystals, and two big bottles of Schlitz Malt Liquor. These ain't hardly mine. All of a sudden I smell the disinfectant he used, so I slam that door. The fumes alone can do me in. All I need is to go rushing back to that hospital the same d.a.m.n day I get home. Wouldn't that be a kicker?

"I fixed your car," he says, heading straight for the refrigerator. I try to guess what he's going in there to get. A fix. But, h.e.l.l, I could use one, too.

"Wasn't nothing wrong with my car," I say, as I head for my bedroom. I can see in the room where Cecil slept that Lewis done made hisself right at home. I hope he don't think he moving in. I got news for him if that's what all this fixing and cleaning is about. He should really think of my house like it's a motel.

"Ma, when was the last time you changed the oil?"

"What you mean, the last time? I ain't never changed the oil. That was your daddy's job, not mine."

Lewis comes in the living room with one of my Cla.s.sico spaghetti jars full of beer and sits down on my off-white couch. "No you don't!" I yell.

"What's wrong?" he asks, looking scared.

"Please don't sit on my good couch with them dirty clothes on, Lewis."

"Okay," he moans, and gets up, looks around the room at two gold chairs I just had re-covered, then down at his pants, and decides to stand. "Anyway, your spark plugs were shot, and you needed a new starter, so I basically talked the man into letting me barter in exchange for some work, which is one reason why I'm so dirty."

He looks down the hallway at me, waiting for me to praise him, I guess, so I do: "Thank you, Lewis. Glad you still use the good sense you was born with. At least some of the time." I should've left that last part off, but it just slipped off my tongue. "Work?"

"Yep. He said he'd hire me if I wanted a job."

"That'd be one h.e.l.luva commute, Lewis."

"I'm thinking about making some changes."

"Well, don't think too fast. Do you realize how hot it gets here?"

"Ma, please. You need anything?"

"Yeah, let me have a sip of that beer." Then I stop and think about it. "Never mind, pour me a gla.s.s, would you?" I say. "Do you know when Paris and Janelle supposed to be getting here?"

"I don't know. I think there's quite a few messages on your answering machine."

I get up from the edge of the bed, and lean over to see a orange "4" blinking. "Why didn't you listen to 'em?"

" 'Cause it's not my phone."

"Well, what if it was something urgent? I've been in the d.a.m.n hospital, Lewis."

"Sorry," he says. "Anyway. What about those prescriptions? You want me to take 'em down to the pharmacy to get filled?"

"Yeah, but I ain't got but about seventy-something dollars to my name, so ask 'em how much they gon' cost. Ain't nothin' to eat in here, is it? I'm starving." "Me, too."

"I bet you are," I say. "I hate that I'm even thinking it, but what I wouldn't pay for some of your daddy's hot links and some baked beans and potato salad and a side of collard greens. Just a teaspoonful." "I can stop by the Shack."

"Where you been? Ain't no more Shacks," I blurt out and then start flipping through a pile of mail next to the phone. Lewis just shakes his head, and guzzles up the last of his beer. All this is too much for him to digest, I guess, but that's what he get for always thinking everybody except him is always doing so good. That everybody else are so G.o.dd.a.m.n happy. I don't know no really happy people. Not the kind that makes you walk around humming. Maybe a short verse every now and then, but that's about it. So-could be this family news flash might s.n.a.t.c.h him out of this fantasy world he been living in. "Just get me a Big Mac and some large fries and two hot apple pies. No. No apple pies. And make that a small fry. I forgot. I'm on a diet."

"Should I drive or walk?"

I feel like throwing something at him for asking such a dumb-a.s.s question. He was smarter when he was a teenager. "Get there whatever way you think makes the most sense, Lewis."

He thinks about it for a minute. Sighs. Takes a couple of steps toward the front door, then says, "I guess I'll drive, then. Would it be okay to get a pack of cigarettes?"

"Add it to your tab and go straight there and come straight back, and Lewis, don't even think about smoking in my car or this house, you got that?"

"I don't consider it an option," he says.

After the door slams shut, I realize I forgot something important: "Lewis, get me two quick-pick lottery tickets!" Sometimes he's just as smart as I hoped he would be, but then other times I can't figure out how he graduated from high school.

The first message is from my dizzy sister Suzie Mae, wondering if I'm still in the hospital. If she wanted to know so d.a.m.n bad, why didn't she call one of my kids to find out? Then I can't hardly believe my ears when I hear Charlotte's voice. At first it don't even sound like her, she sound so mellow, and I can tell she was calling from a pay phone, 'cause I hear that mall music and a lot of noise in the background. Something must be going on at home, otherwise she wouldn'ta called me like this. At least she called. I ain't exacdy shocked that she ain't coming out here. I wonder what kind of vacation Al's going on. Maybe he got a big job on his rig or something. Oh h.e.l.l, not Cecil? Says he found out I was coming home today and he'll stop by later to make sure I'm okay. Plus, he say he got some news. I hope he paid the IRS. This would mean I can move when I want to, not 'cause I have to. It just dawned on me, where in the h.e.l.l will I go if I have to move? I'm living on a fixed income, which seems to keep me in one fix after another all right. I'm meditating on this when I hear Ess.e.x, the head of our bowling league, saying they ain't heard hide nor hair from me, and "We lagging behind without you, Vy. You better hurry up and get your big b.u.t.t down to the alley. Where you been hiding? You still alive, ain't you? Don't die on us before the tournament next month, gal. Chuckle. Chuckle." Is that a knock at the front door? I do not feel like getting up to answer it, especially if it's Cecil, or Loretta, 'cause I just barely walked in the house long enough to catch my breath. I ain't hardly in no mood to be chitchatting yet. I peek through the curtains and, sure enough, it's Loretta. She done dyed her hair again. Now it look lavender. She ought to stop. You can see her pink scalp and straight through her hair 'cause it's so thin, but she got enough mousse and hairspray on it that it look like cotton candy spinning on over her head.

"Viola, are you in there, sweetie?"

Oh shoot. I can't lie to Loretta like this. I knock on the window to get her attention and she walks over and stands there. "Hi, Loretta. Thanks for stopping by, honey, but I just got home and I'm supposed to stay in bed at least until tomorrow."

"Okay. But do you need anything? I'm on my way to the supermarket and I could get you something if you want."

"Thanks, but my son already went for me."

"Oh, your son is here. That's nice."

"Yep. My other kids will be here today, too."

She looks hurt. Like what is she supposed to do now. "Who did your hair, Loretta?"

"Got it done down at Vivacious."

"It looks fabulous, honey."

"Thank you, Vy. Well, I'll head on home, but you call if you need anything. And let me know when you're up for bridge."

"I will. And you're feeling okay?"

"Depending on what day it is. Diabetes can play havoc with you. But I'm thankful to the Almighty just to be here."

"Join the club. See you later, sweetie."

She smiles and waves, turns, and leaves the porch. Loretta is so frail and pale. Hard to believe she lives in Las Vegas. She don't have no family to speak of, but, from the looks of things, I guess that would be me.

"Mama, wake up," Janelle is saying. But that's impossible, 'cause I ain't sleep. But my body is being shook, and I realize my eyes is closed, been closed for a few minutes, I guess. The mail I was opening laying next to me look like a fan of white envelopes except for that brown one from the IRS threatening for the last time to take this house. They can have this raggedy hole. I ain't losing no more sleep over this dump. Let Cecil worry about it. Let him figure it out.

"Granny, how are you feeling?"

"Shanice?"

I try to sit up, and when I do, she helps me, while Janelle stands at the foot of the bed putting on rubber gloves. "When did y'all get here? Is Lewis back yet?"

"No, thank the Lord. We got here about fifteen minutes ago, Mama. You were out like a light, and we wanted you to rest, but your nosy granddaughter here insisted on sitting next to you until you woke up. Did she wake you?" "No I didn't," Shanice snaps.

"You better watch the tone of your voice when you talking to your mama, girl."

"Sorry, Granny. Sorry, Ma."

"So are you feeling close to normal yet, Ma?"

"Fair to middlin', but I'm alive, so I can't do too much complaining. How about you? I know you tired. Y'all drove all the way here?"

"We sure did. It was a nice drive. We needed the time together."

I look at Shanice. Her eyes ain't got no glaze, like she trying not to show no feelings one way or the other. She's good at it, too. Then I glance up at Janelle, whose eyes is doing just the opposite: straining to hold back something. Not tears. Something way past that. What in Lord's name could it be? I hope it ain't what I think it is. She'll tell it when she wants to. And I'll wait. "You putting on weight?" I ask Janelle.

"A couple of pounds, maybe."

"I thought you liked being a anorexic," I say with a smirk.

"I don't like being fat," she says.

"Well, for what it's worth, I dreamt about fish last night."

"And?"

"It usually means somebody's pregnant. How you feel about that?"

"Old wives' tales haven't stood the test of rime, Ma, and you know it."

"Oh, but you'll spend ten dollars going to a psychic and consider it money well spent?"

"It's another way to gain self-knowledge, insight, and an opportunity to get to know yourself better."

"Spare me, would you? Who in the world would know you better than you know yourself, besides me? Have any of them psychics mentioned when you might graduate from college or get a real job?" - "I have ajob."

"No, you don't," Shanice blurts out.

"I run a household and I'm raising a child. Look, Mama, I just got here, so don't start yet, please?"

She rolls her eyes at her daughter, so I decide to cut in. "Shanice, go get Granny's gla.s.s that your Uncle Lewis left sitting in the living room, would you, baby?" Granny's gla.s.s that your Uncle Lewis left sitting in the living room, would you, baby?"

"I poured it down the drain," Janelle says.

"What? Why?"

"Because the last thing you need right now is beer. Paris was just telling me about this article she read in a holistic magazine about hops-which is the stuff they use to make beer-and a lot of other things asthmatics should stay away from."

"Paris believe everything she read. Where is she, by the way? Did she change her mind?"

"She and Dingus should be here any minute. Their plane was supposed to land a half-hour or so ago. She didn't want anybody to pick her up. She's renting a car. You know how she is."

"Yeah, I know how she is. Shanice, stand up and let your granny look at you!"

She gets up. All legs. Not a drop of meat on them thighs.

"How come those shorts is cut so high?"

"They're Daisy Dukes," she says.

"Daisy who? I don't care what her name is. You can't bend over to get nothin' in those things without your behind hanging out."

"So?" she says, about as sarcastic as it gets.

I reach over and get my inhaler and take a few puffs. "I don't wanna see you wearing 'em in my presence or out in public so go take 'em off and put on something decent."

"It's all right, Ma?"

"It ain't all right," I say. And if I could jump out this bed and slap the taste out of my granddaughter I would, but when I look at her eyes, I realize something is missing. That little smart remark she just made is not the way my granddaughter talks to me. Not using that tone. Something ain't right. So let it go, Vy. Let it pa.s.s. "All right."

"So-where's Daddy?" Janelle asks.

I hear engines in the driveway. "Go see if that's him," I say, before catching myself. Both of 'em head out toward the living room and I force myself to get up. At first, I feel dizzy, then a little lightheaded, but I'm okay. By the time I get out to the living room, we're at the beginning of what looks like a Price family reunion, minus two.

Okay. So everybody hugs everybody but don't n.o.body act like they really mean it, except for when I wrap my arms around my grandson, who is now some kind of giant. Dingus kisses me on my forehead, then takes me by the elbow and leads me over to the couch. He's wearing blue jeans and a long red sweatshirt. This boy look good in red. "Should you be up, Granny?"

"I'm out the hospital, baby. And I ain't about to become n.o.body's invalid. I just had a little asthma attack. I swear, you looking more and more like your daddy by the minute. And what you doing, growing a inch a month or what?"